


All The King's Horses

by MentallyDatingAHotCelebrity



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Thor (Movies)
Genre: Angst and Tragedy, Depression
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-25
Updated: 2020-05-25
Packaged: 2021-03-02 22:21:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,052
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24364234
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MentallyDatingAHotCelebrity/pseuds/MentallyDatingAHotCelebrity
Summary: "No, Loki."He stared as if a dagger had cleaved his heart in two. "Lie," his soul hissed venomously. "Lie. Lie. Lie!"A one-shot of Loki during the events of Thor (2011)
Comments: 3
Kudos: 15





	All The King's Horses

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first upload to ao3; apologies for any sort of errs, mistakes, or issues. I know naught that which I do. Also this fic is wholly inspired by the song 'All The King's Horses' by the sister duo Karmina; I suggest finding the song on YouTube or something and listening to it as you read. It enhances the mood, imo. Do enjoy.

**ALL THE KING'S HORSES**

**_._ **

**_._ **

_I knock the ice from my bones_  
_Try not to feel the cold_  
_Caught in the thought of that time_

_When everything was fine, everything was mine_  
_Everything was fine, everything was mine_

_All the king's horses and all the king's men_  
_Couldn't put me back together again_

_Run with my hands on my eyes_  
_Blind, but I'm still alive_  
_Free to go back on my own_

_But is it still a home when you're all alone_  
_Is it still a home when you're all alone_

_There is a reason I'm still standing_  
_I never knew if I'd be landing_  
_And I will run fast, outlast,_  
_Everyone that said no…_

_All the king's horses and all the king's men_  
_Couldn't put me back together again._

**_— All The King's Horses – Karmina —_ **

* * *

He exhaled.

It was so frozen, the world around him, that he could see his breath.

He hated this realm, but he came because Thor wanted him to.

He wouldn't have, but his brother had _wanted_ _him_.

After so long of mockery and taunting that he was nothing but a trickster and a scholar, Thor desired his company. . .

Truly, he could complete his machinations here just as easily as back in Asgard. . . But there also existed in this unexpected turn of events the benefit that it would supplant blame of alerting Odin to this illegal venture into someone else's head, thus removing suspicion from him for at least a handful of hours. . . if not more.

He would have smiled, only the bitter chill seeping through his war-coat made it impossible to focus on anything except for caution and self-preservation.

.

.

The quiet was wrong, his senses shouted.

He inhaled, and the raw cold seeped into his lungs like a poison.

He shifted, ignoring the sensation of the eternal ice and snow creeping up from beneath the soles of his boots.

.

.

He felt an inane sense of dread when Thor allowed his pathetic pride to overcome his wisdom; not that the fool ever exuded much intelligence in any matter. Which was why he had manipulated this event into taking place.

To prove, _once and for all_ , that Thor was not _ready_ to be crowned; that he would bathe Asgard in a new age of blood and war if he were to become her king. He wanted _everyone_ to see and comprehend just as he did, to understand _entirely_.

.

.

There was no amusement in this battle, only the iron weight of a task that must be finished. He exacted his practiced skills with minimal enthusiasm, reverting to the cleverest of his tricks where he could.

But then tricks were not enough.

The monster stared him down—a creature perhaps the last thing he mirrored Thor's opinion of. Words of warning lifted among the clash of the fight, but there was no time or room to heed them. He thrashed in the hold he'd been caught in, wanting to break loose and run.

Terror routed every ounce of courage he had mustered.

He felt frozen.

He couldn't force himself to breathe. . . it was too cold, _he was too cold._

Fear clawed up his throat, desperate to scream, to be recognized in his soul, and he cursed it, for there was no time. His dagger flashed, slashing ragged through the monster who had revealed a different horror than death.

How could. . . Who might. . . No one would understand. He could be slain for this if anyone saw— He looked around wildly, holding his hand out before him, the shattered metal hanging from his torn sleeve like tattered garlands.

But the others were pitched in thick battle, leaving him alone with this terrible revelation.

His heart died as he watched Thor rise up from amidst a throng of Frost Giant scum. They had grown distant as they aged, it was all too true. But that void would certainly expand ever-wider, if Thor learned of this. . . He would lose all his brother's love, all the adoration – what little that was left, Loki felt sure.

Thor could not know. Thor _would_ _not_.

Loki lunged back into the battle with a fevered determination.

He threw a dagger, his fingertips shook, but he swore to his ancestors and ignored it.

As he flung himself around a frost-corroded pillar, desperately his mind pulled for answers, grasping and clutching, but Loki felt only that nameless fear. It drowned him in spite of his desire to throw it off.

 _Cursed_ , his mind whispered viciously. He felt the shudder that began in his head, expanding outward to the ends of his fingers. His next dagger landed far from its intended mark.

_Why did I. . . If I had not taken this fool's errand!_

His mind could not be slowed, reveling in the pain of what _could have been_ —he resolved to ignore them.

They must get out of Jotunheim, _they must get out_. He would have his answers when they went home— Yes, back home, to Asgard. That would bring him peace; Mother would explain, Father would lend his sage remarks, and he would consider it all forgotten. He would be normal again. . . It would all be far simpler than the complexities he wove now, Loki believed in fervent agony.

His breath caught and he choked on the brittle wintry air.

_Liar of liars, lying to **yourself**._

It was too cold, and his heart felt locked in deep ice.

Suddenly the the frozen realm became overwhelming.

Too bleak.

Too barren.

Too hopeless.

Too cold.

Until the frost bit into his skin and anchored in his heart.

 _Cursed_ , his soul had begun to pray, _surely_. . .

**|o0o|**

**.**

_"One, two, three, four. . ." His hands slipped where they covered his eyes. He quickly fixed them. He did not want to be called a cheater._

_"You cannot find me, Loki!"_

_"I can! I can find you; Mother is teaching me a finding spell!"_

_"You can't use tricks, Loki! You must use your eyes," Thor's exasperated voice drifted to his ears._

_Loki kept counting._

_"You missed seventeen!" Thor scolded cheerfully._

_"This is silly, I know you're sitting in the tree," Loki scoffed, dropping his hands and tilting his head to look up. Thor beamed at him, swinging his legs back and forth aimlessly on his perch._

_"Can I climb up with you?"_

_Thor smiled and nodded._

_"Come on, Loki."_

_The raven-haired little boy stood and began his ascent into the sturdy limbs of the oak to join his blond brother._

**.**

**|o0o|**

Loki stared at the whirling, illuminated Bifrost in disbelief.

He'd expected Thor to be reprimanded. Scolded, perhaps. . . But he never believed Father would _banish_ his elder brother; the favorite of the people, the champion of Asgard. The golden prince.

Loki couldn't remove his gaze from the whirling vortex.

He'd wanted Thor to feel ridicule, not be turned out of the only home he had known; not cast away without power, without protection.

The loyalty ingrained into him from a lifetime of growing ached to find his brother, but this. . . devious pleasure. . . The side of him that made all this possible swore this was necessary.

Loki couldn't decide. He loved his brother, in spite of what the Warriors Three believed, in spite of what Sif said, in spite of what the servants gossiped and the lords and ladies whispered behind his back. He loved him, he did, he could swear it; but he must do _something_.

 _Love_ did not mean he must bear all the foolhardy behavior in silence. He could not let such an ignorant fool become king, to ruin millennia of established glory, to wage torrid war at the expense of innocent blood for an arrogant monarch's vanity. He loved Thor, that was why he must do this now! He loved him, did he not? Surely, it was love that caused him to do all he had done. Yes, yes, for love. . . _surely_. . .

But he could not group his thoughts, could not take stock of his unranked mental ramblings. The nightmarish revelation he had been given by the giant's hand caused restlessness to rise in the center of his chest, thrashing through his middle and outward to his heart.

But he must be calm, he must be composed, he must be. . .

Yet he could not will himself to be calm, for even as he lowered his gaze to peer at his hand he felt his soul tremble with fear that when he looked it would be Jotun-blue, garish, and impossible. Impossible, impossible, unless. . .

 _Cursed_.

The single desperate answer attacked once more with new will, assailing the careful walls he had constructed to blot out his fears, revealing them all to be cheaply fashion bulwarks, easily overwhelmed.

He eyed Sif nervously, to see if she had caught him gazing at his hand as if it should do him harm, but she only stared into the hearth in quiet conflict. The others also seemed lost in bitter thoughts.

He left them.

There remained but one place Loki knew he could experiment with the possibilities in his mind.

If only he had kept to his well-laid plans!

If only he hadn't given in to his childish craving to be in Thor's orbit!

If only he could put off this pathetic need to be acknowledged and respected as a brother, a friend, a warrior.

Damn his naivety!

 _If only, if only_ , the wishes went round in his head in a repetitious cloud, desperate to reverse time and refuse to go.

.

.

Loki stared into the depths of the undulating Casket, hypnotized by the cold blue light that pulsed within the hoar-frosted casing. He gripped it fiercely until his fingers ached to let go.

He could _feel_ _it_.

It crawled along his skin, invading and clammy like corrupted seidr.

It washed over him, and he closed his eyes not of his own volition, but because he could no longer bear to look at what he could see.

Like the distant cry of gulls when one is lost among the breakers, he heard them then, uneven and stately. Footsteps on the stairs.

"Stop!"

His eyes flew open, chin jerking as he saw a once-familiar world awash in a broader spectrum of color.

Loki stiffened.

His focus honed in on the voice that had cried out to him, familiar; a voice that time and experience promised would sooth the pain of his heart. Slowly, as if another controlled his body, as if he saw himself from _outside_ himself, Loki dropped his hands from the relic. He felt curious, yet soundlessly terrified.

"Am I cursed?"

Had he asked the words? Such a simple child's question—like the probing inquiries he'd asked of old. Yet it bore the weight of Yggdrasil.

_No, do not tell me!_

**_Please, please, save me from this!_ **

_Tell me!_

**_Say nothing!_ **

He did not wish to know, but he must, for sanity, for peace.

_Lie._

_Lie, lie, Lie!_

He was the master of lies, and he begged for them now. Anything—any kind of lie but a truth he could not bear. A beautiful lie, carved of crystal and gilded in gold. Encrusted with diamond; brilliant as sunlight, fair as starlight. He wanted the best of lies now, so dearly wanted to scream like a madman.

"No."

_No._

_**No, no, no!** _

Loki refused. No, he would not. . .

But his mind flew faster than he could will it to fall silent.

"What am I?"

Loki did not move, he could not—he felt trapped in his own skin, staring at his hands. How long it took now; longer. . . So much longer than on Jotunheim.

He lifted his head.

He wanted eloquence and words now. Words and more words; words to fill up the emptiness tearing at him; words to sooth the only possible truth he could grasp but that he only wanted to push from him into the farthest night.

"You are my son."

_No, do not give me that—Not only that!_

That was no answer, it did not ease the fire licking at him; rending his soul like parchment pulled too thin. _More_ , he must have something **more** , not this, these words. . . too little. He needed—

 _Please, please, please_ , he begged, _please give me more than this. Better words of solace, better words of explanation._

But he heard his tongue form other words and speak them out.

"What more than that?"

Now the shift happened, slowly its hold broke and weakened and faded.

But the cold. . .

The cold he could not shake. He felt numb from exposure.

Loki felt raw, and he wanted to cry out like a boy. This must be made well, it must be erased as if it had not happened.

Where was Mother?

He needed words, soft words, clear words, explanation. . . Something to fill up the void ever-growing inside himself, consuming all that was once dear and familiar and replacing it with awful horror. But no one stood near to explain, so he would will it into being. He would force answer from out of the silence, from the one who whispered protection but offered none of it to him now when he yearned to have it most.

He grit his teeth as he dragged the answers from the Allfather – _my father_ — **_No!_**

_This is not what I wanted._

His mind whirled as the answers spiraled down and down and farther down into darkness.

_No, no, no, no!_

He was not, it was not. . .

But it was. _It was!_

It must be true, for his—No, he was _not his father!_

The understanding came ill, a cruel taunt as to why he had wandered far from this people he always called family. He had not belonged because he could not belong. He had endeavored to fit into a place that was not crafted for his image, and it stung like sleet against his skin.

But the tales. . . the. . . war. . . the **fear** of Frost Giants. . .

_And he was one, had been one, all along!_

What sort of demented, wicked life was this?

 _Cursed_. . . yes, he had been cursed! To ever believe he could call himself a master liar, a deceiver of others.

Trickster, he called himself with delighted merriment, yet those he loved all his life had created the ultimate deception.

The betrayal stung, a knife-blade cold to his heart. He felt mortally wounded, without any course to gain justification, no resolve from this shrieking crescendo falling toward him. He longed for peace, for ignorance to be his again, for something to ease the ache bruising inside his chest.

But there was nothing. There stood no avenue before him to flee from this valley of shadow.

.

.

The guards took Odin away from the steps where he had fallen, and once they'd gone Loki fled from those chambers himself. He could not bear to look at them, at the place where the Allfather had fallen, at his _own body_ , without loathing and disgust and rage and torment.

He sought comfort, solace, understanding, but in return found only offerings of weak familial love.

He had sought answers and found only bald truth, unkindly given and cruelly presented.

They sat in silence, but his soul warred loudly in his ears.

His glance flickered to her across the divide.

"So why did he lie?"

Calm, quiet, relaxed.

The mortals had made him the god of lies, and he would lie and cheat and feign his way through this horror until he could bear it no longer or it abated and left him as before. But the child in him – the child that was ever-present in Mother's presence – screamed for him to speak honestly, to ask openly, to question with every fear and each pain on display.

But he could not find it within himself to cease playing this wretched game. To present with a facade of nothing, to design an indifferent veneer, was easier than giving in to the fears baying in his mind.

"He kept the truth from you so you would never feel different. You are our son, Loki. And we your family."

Not even she might bring him comfort!

Loki did not wish to know again that they were family; he did not care for such hollow declarations. He did not want to know that he was welcomed with open arms because no one had ever been told anything of him but carefully constructed falsehoods.

He longed to know that they loved as he was, for what he was and how he loved them ardently. Not that they loved him because he was the son of a king, their enemy, and perhaps he could have been useful once but it no longer mattered now because affection transcended skillful politics.

He would find no comfort here.

Pained rage bid him rise and leave.

But she paused him.

_This is not what I wanted._

He stared at the spear.

He held its foreign golden weight.

_No, not reassurance of your trust like this._

No, he did not want this faith in him.

A loyal dog given charge of the hall only after the master had gone. This was not his scheme; this had never been his desire. But she, Mother – _Mother, why have you done this to me?_ – smiled with grace and pride and called him her king. As if she believed this was evidence of her love shining out.

No, this was not for what he had asked.

_This was not what he wanted._

No, he wanted that kindness, that gentleness, the soft words she spoke when she taught him her tricks and he failed to perform.

He longed for her to speak words of encouragement to continue to be as he was because that was more than enough, that he did well as who he was and blood did not matter, the soul did.

Words that he would be all right, despite this agony and this constant hiss in his head that he was _nothing_.

He did not want a golden rod of power and a golden throne.

**|o0o|**

**.**

_"I will catch you! I don't fail at this game!"_

_"Never, brother!"_

_Thor._

_In the air, probably. Cheating just because he was learning to fly without wings. . . Loki scoffed with annoyance._

_"You won't catch me, liar!" Sif sang breathlessly, no double meanings in her words, from somewhere close to his shoulder._

_To his left Fandral laughed._

_He turned, and Sif exclaimed gleefully from almost directly in front of him. He stumbled, putting his fingers to the blindfold over his eyes. He stilled, calling up his seidr to locate them in the faux-darkness the material had created._

_Something. . ._

_The boy stood still._

_Why were they so quiet?_

_Something was not right. . ._

_"Loki!" Thor screamed, from somewhere not where he had been._

_He heard it then._

_Hoof-beats._

_He froze, heart pounding, mind empty._

_"Run, Loki, run!" Sif shouted._

_He ran._

_"Loki, to me! To me, brother, to my voice!" Thor cried urgently._

_He ran, attempting to remove the blindfold. . ._

_Damn his magic. Not until he'd caught one of them, that had been the arrangement agreed upon before the spell was cast. It was the only way Sif had consented to play the game; now it felt like a sentence to death._

_His hands struck one of the courtyard walls painfully, and Loki might have fallen from the sudden contact had not Thor snatched him upwards by the front of his tunic with a desperate jerk._

_He panted, fear having taken over._

_"You caught me," Thor murmured, adrenaline deepening his formerly shrill tone._

_The blindfold slackened._

_Loki tore it off and looked down._

_A sleek ebony bull paced irately below them near the wall._

_Across the way Sif and Fandral sat in a tree, clutching the oak's sturdy branches._

_The animal's horns were long and cruel._

_Loki exhaled._

_He could have been gored and trampled to death, but he hadn't. Blinded temporarily, but at least he was alive. Thor laughed weakly and embraced him. Loki laughed, the threat of tears fading as he buried his face in his brother's shoulder._

**.**

**|o0o|**

For a long time, Loki did not know how long, he stood across from the looming golden throne in the vast shadows cast by the pillars of the room, regarding it. The weight of Gungnir lay heavy in his hands; singing his fingertips with imagined power that he had no right to wield.

Tentatively, Loki had crept from the darkness shrouding him, passing the torches that flickered and cracked like ominous warnings that he should not enter such a high place. He stood below the golden seat, gazing upward at the wings that rose from either side – an emblem of the Valkyrie to protect the throne, an ancient symbol lost to history and legend – and closed his eyes before summoning the armor crafted for a coronation that was doomed from its conception.

He peered down at the golden staff in his hands, afraid that if he looked too long it would vanish and leave him alone in a dark room without hope, without light. A thought took hold amidst the terror, and he took a step, and rose with it.

.

.

As Loki silenced fear and put uncertainty to rest, they marched in to greet him.

His friends—Thor's friends; the people he had once found affinity with only to despise in the end for their blind adoration of one who needed a lesson taught him because he had become arrogant and ignorant to the destruction he wrote.

They demanded from him, they _begged_ _him_.

Pleading to have their war-hungry, chaos-inciting, realm-breaking companion back in their midst without learning that lesson he so desperately needed to learn.

Loki might be temporary regent, instilled by default with a power he did not desire to wield, but that did not mean he would race and stumble to undo what had been done. He was not a fool, he was not hungry for this throne, for this power; but a lesson had to be learnt, and he would see to it if he never saw to anything again.

He lied to them, artfully; trips of the tongue that would have sold a fearful congregation but did little for hardened, suspicious companions such as Sif and the Warriors Three. But their opinions were chaff on the wind, and he let them fly off and be forgotten.

He had much greater machinations at work than they could possibly fathom around their putrid love for Thor.

He had been given power.

He had been given trust.

He must prove that he was loyal, in spite of what he had learned—despite that he was not true-born a son of Odin.

He must prove that he was faithful, so that it would not leave any room for doubt.

He must prove that he was constant, even if others wavered. Even if he was not of their kind.

_He must._

But first, to schemes and fine designs. He needed some glorious gesture, something that could not be mistaken. An act that would earn pride and pleasure and adoration forever, even from Thor; even from Asgard.

Then it came to him.

For centuries Asgard spurned the Jotuns for their animal brutality.

They had fought in countless wars, with great loss.

But what was it the Gatekeeper had said?

_If Bifrost lay open it would destroy the world it had been left open to. . ._

He could subdue that realm more thoroughly than with the ineffective efforts Odin had undergone. _Then_ the All-father would no longer see him as weak; a failure that played with seidr instead of sword. At last, perhaps, he would be worthy of possession; if that was how he was viewed in the ruins of the Jotun temple so many ages before.

Now he would prove himself a son of Odin, never the son of a monster.

No, no, much more than that—that he was Asgardian.

Yes, yes, he was Asgardian! He was. He breathed Asgard, it was beloved by him, and he would care for it while he was its king. _Yes, so be it._

The first act in this play as king would be to achieve worth in the eyes of the true king.

_Worthy. . . at last._

He told the lie so beautifully to himself, until he could taste victory on his tongue like a heady summer wine. It would be magnificent. It would be ingenious. It would be remembered long after he existed no more. A testament to his loyalty, to his love, to his value. His worth.

**_He lied._ **

.

.

He lied and he lied and he lied.

He lied to Thor, to Mother, to himself, to the Jotuns; he lied to Heimdal.

Creator of lies, god of mischief, it was what he _did_.

He formed chaos so he could be the savior. But he did this for something different. How else could he prove his undying fealty? He must, somehow, become the good son without possession of a drop of Odin's blood in his veins.

The ends unraveled, but Loki blinded himself to the flaws.

His intentions and construction were guided by the yearnings of a child, draped in the thought that, through violent and swift means, he might achieve his ultimate desire. A desire that had haunted him nearly the length of his life.

To stand as equal beside Thor.

Not above, not below, but beside. Without being seen in a lesser light.

It was all that he asked, and all he craved.

He unleashed a demon on a fragile world, the intention for it: distraction.

The disregard of the Warriors Three and Sif for his direction and authority was an unforeseen disturbance of the quiet waters of his plan, but he knew he could force these ripples to conform to his intent before they became waves.

He listened and he knew, he saw and he realized.

But gods cannot be killed through small means, and Thor would _not_ die.

Not now that he had at last discovered his humility—offering up his life as recompense for unknown sins as only a true king could. Loki stared into the void, peering through the eyes of the Destroyer, and accepted the offering.

Thor needed no further aid in reacquiring Mjolnir.

.

.

He coerced and he imprisoned, using this newfound heritage to temporarily neutralize the only threat to his carefully laid strategy: the Gatekeeper. The one who had never trusted him, who did not regard him with favor, who saw only want and hunger and never attempted to offer nourishment.

For a moment he savored but an instant, he felt the taste of **_perfection_**.

Mother beside him, the demon of his sire reduced to nothing but ash. He was victor over the monster in him, and he would finish with eradication of the monsters outside of him. He would prove whose son he was, whose relic, whose weapon.

In spite of the living lie of his being, in spite of the heritage resting in his veins – a roaring river under silent ice.

He was loyal, he was loyal, he was loyal, he would swear it until he died.

.

.

But then all at once, Thor.

And his meticulous designs were failing, and he _hated_ his brother.

But he would finish.

He would tear Jotunheim out of the World Tree with one violent twist, like rotten fruit from a healthy vine. He was _Asgardian_. He did not belong with monsters in a land of darkness and ice.

**|o0o|**

**.**

_"Fight me!"_

_Thor laughed._

_Loki grinned._

_"Of course, but so long as you accept defeat gracefully, brother," the older boy teased, blue eyes sparkling._

_They fought, and Loki lost his great blade quickly. Thor paused._

_Loki brought a dagger to his palm, as Mother had shown him. One weapon of twelve._

_Thor lunged forward, laughing._

_Loki ducked and twisted and dodged, as Mother and he had practiced. A dagger was small, but equally as dangerous in the hand of a skilled opponent. Then Loki produced his ultimate trick; Mother had taught it to him only two nights ago._

_Forty specters, all in his image, ringed his brother._

_He stood to Thor's left, smiling no less exuberantly than his images._

_He lunged._

_Thor tumbled to his back._

_Loki crouched over him, dagger at his throat._

_"I win." He grinned wide, breathing hard from concentration and exertion._

_Thor laughed, loud and boisterous._

_"Of course you do, brother. A masterful trick!"_

_Loki retreated immediately. His smile faltered, confidence and pride fading._

_Thor stood and dusted his tunic off, unaware._

_Loki magicked the daggers away._

_His heart no longer soared with victory and the exuberance of a spar well-won._

**Tricks** _._

_The smile on his features vanished entirely._

_Thor called up Sif and Fandral, and the two came sprinting with their weapons._

**Tricks, nothing more.**

_Disappointment scored his heart._

_Loki inhaled and exhaled, closing his eyes and guiding his emotions back under control._

_Perhaps he would go in. . . he needed to study. Reading, yes, wonderful. Reading helped to numb the bruises of unkind words until they became meaningless and forgotten._

**.**

**|o0o|**

Loki stared up at the destruction he had wrought. A bare-branched tree of cold light and white fire.

The brightness of his handiwork terrified him, _and yet_. . .

He stood _delighted_ by it.

It meant he would finally have victory not earned through tricks.

This was power—a king's power, a loyal son's power.

Asgard was eternal, strong and glorious. The head of Yggdrasil. Here it was, defined and displayed in a more efficient manner than menial space travel and repulsive war.

War, how he _loathed_ it.

He had never been a lover of the brutal madness she espoused.

This he gazed upon was finesse and perfection—all strength utilized in achieving what had before been impossible.

.

.

_"I'll hunt the monsters down and slay them all!"_

**No, it is I who shall slay them, not you, _brother_.**

.

.

"Why have you done this?"

What?

_Why had he **done**. . . ?_

Loki turned to face his brother, the god who had been mortal but stood now endowed with new strength gained from worthiness and a soul transformed.

This was something he had always spoken of, and now he questioned it?

Were his intentions not clear?

How could Thor not _see._ . .

 _ **This** _was all they had spoken of when they were younger, unmindful of the irony within their fantasies of war and victory.

A Frost Giant trained to hatred of his breed.

"To prove to Father that I am a worthy son! When he wakes, I will have saved his life, I will have destroyed that race of monsters, and I will be true heir to the throne!"

But was that _really_ what he wanted?

Yes, he decided ferociously, he _wanted_ _it_.

He wanted to be doggedly loyal, bound eternally to Asgard; he would have his tricks and his cunning, and from then on he would have no need to stir the demon sleeping beneath this perfect Æsir facade.

"You can't kill an entire race!"

How couldn't he?

Surely Thor hadn't forgotten their play as children?

To wipe out the monsters, to make them suffer for each and every drop of Asgardian blood they had spilt. They had always dreamt it, but suddenly here was sympathy instead of support.

Loki stood uncertain and confused, but he suppressed it in favor of his determination. If he poured out his secret, Thor would kill him; he felt this as he felt the deliciously delirious thrum of Gungnir's great magic.

"Why not? . . . And what is this new found love for the Frost Giants? You: who could have killed them all with your bare hands!"

Thor had wanted to, once.

_No lies, no lies, no lies._

Now, he only spoke **truth** , he convinced himself.

"I've changed."

Words he might have scoffed at in another age, but he knew. . .

No lie lay behind Thor's words.

He _had_ changed.

But so had he. So had they _both_.

Irrevocably.

Thor had become a man worthy to be king, and it ate at him. For somewhere in the darkness of Loki's heart his conscious whispered that he had become the careless one. The one to throw caution and planning to the wind in favor of rash actions to stave off unfounded fear and protect ignorant arrogance.

But he would do anything to risk never being seen as a monster.

 _He would kill and kill and kill_ until he was believed and his faith was assured.

"So have I. Now fight me!"

They fought, and they fought not only with blows but with words, and he knew that somewhere in the madness he had admitted his longest desire, his oldest hurt.

To be equal.

But never his nightmare; no, that was his to hide and his to share when he willed.

.

.

Thor let a blow fall like thunder on the thrumming bridge before the Bifrost.

Loki stood amazed.

What was this? A second sacrifice?

"What are you doing? If you destroy the Bridge, you'll never see her again!" He implored to sentiment and affection, but it was a futile venture, and he knew it instantly.

The ground began to tremble, and he saw all his determination fade in an instant.

The bridge tumbled down into the infinity of a hole in space, and Loki felt terror, tenfold what he felt in Jotunheim.

He reached for something, anything, to stay his death.

He did not want to die, not when he could still swear himself true to this race.

His fingers encircled the golden staff of Gungnir, and he grasped it with everything in his being.

He looked up, and Thor looked down at him.

But something in him pitched wildly, and Loki's gaze strayed beyond his brother's face, to the ultimate liar in this realm, to the ultimate strategist he had always aspired to become. The king who had given him a lie he embraced and clung to so tenaciously that it was foolish hope from that lie he believed in now.

He wanted to go on being the son of a king.

A better king than the demon he had vanquished, despite the lies he offered, despite the secrets he had kept.

He implored his starvation to the man who kept them from falling into a dark abyss.

"I could have done it, Father! I could have done it! For you! For all of us!"

_For the alleviation of my fear, for your approval, for this realm's love._

_I would do all you might ask me, and beyond._

**_Do not let me go._ **

It was all he had that remained; his handhold slipped, but he refused to be the weak one, to let go when he could no longer hold on.

He screamed with his soul, and he implored with his eyes.

_Please, give me now what you denied me._

His heart yearned wildly. Peace, understanding, consolation.

_If you cannot give me truth then lie as I know you can! For you have fooled the Lord of Lies, so do it once more in this moment._

"No, Loki."

**_No. No. No!_ **

Five thousand meanings in one word.

He stared as if a dagger had gone to his heart.

 **Lie** , his soul hissed venomously.

_Lie, lie, lie! But do not tell me I am not yours, that I am not worthy, that I am a monster. You cannot mean I have never been equal, and I never can be._

_Do not say that with one word, one look, one soft cadence of breath._

_Not with my name at the end as if I am a child who asked for another tale before bed when I had exceeded my time._

The wind rushed, and world was silent, but he felt as if he clung to infinity.

He couldn't breathe, and his heart pounded.

"No, Loki."

His strength fled.

No, he was not worthy.

No, he was not loyal.

No, he was not equal.

No, he was not a true son.

No, he should not continue to hold on when it did not matter whether he breathed or perished.

His eyes fled in terror from the face of the man who deemed him a failure, to the man who had been his brother.

Knowing flashed with fear to rival his own.

So be it.

"Loki, _no_. . ."

A different declaration, but he was decided. His fingers uncurled, and he let go.

_**"NO!"** _

**Author's Note:**

> This is a mega-ancient story that I had originally uploaded to Fanfiction.Net under the same name. Buuut, because people have been asking me for my ao3 account, I decided that I'd transfer my "best of Mental's work" over here. Like a master list of sorts. *shrugs* We shall see.


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